Lost Souls
by Fic Fairy
Summary: Holby City. One has a problem with her baby's father, the other has a problem with her own. Lost and alone they find themselves turning to each other for comfort, but will it really help in the long run? !girlgirl! Feedback much loved!
1. Connie, In Retrospect

**Lost Souls**

Do I regret it? I don't know. That is, I think, entirely dependant on whether I judge it as a mistake I wouldn't make twice, or as a road now travelled life experience.

What I do know is that it never would have happened without Sam. Had he not wound me up so tightly, setting me off like a coiled spring, and as a consequence caused me to blurt out my most guarded secret, then I'd never have been left at my most vulnerable. My most alone.

You see, when I went round there, clutching a bottle of wine in hand, I went for me and me only. Because I needed comforting, because I needed to be with someone who knew me as the human being that I am, not the cold blooded monster my baby's father thought I was.

Naturally though, I'd never have admitted that at the time. Not to myself, or anyone else. Instead I held the lofty and martyred view that I was intending to support a friend who, up until that point, I'd cast aside during his darkest hour in favour of dealing with my own problems. What's a dead wife after all, when you find yourself pregnant with an illegitimate, not to mention first, child.

To be fair to me though, there was genuine guilt there. When I'd heard via the Holby grapevine that Elliot had been living in a disused office I felt terrible that I'd not done more to reach out to him in the months following Gina's death, but all the same, I'm not sure I'd have turned up on his doorstep if it weren't for the fact I felt so unbelievably needy and alone.

But forget motives, forget rhyme or reason, the fact of the matter here is that I did go, and as a result my life span into realms that I never ever could have second guessed or imagined.

Was it a mistake? Judge for yourself…


	2. Martha, Her Arrival

I was surprised when I opened the door and found her stood behind it. Surprised and pretty pissed off actually; I felt like the ring master in a travelling circus,

"Roll up, roll up, come and see the man sent so insane by grief that he slept in a squalid office rather than go home…"

I suppose I was more put out than anything else. She'd obviously done nothing to help my dad since my mum's death and yet here she was, bold as brass, stood on the doorstep with her bottle of wine like she'd been invited to a dinner party of something.

"What do you want?" I asked coolly, not really in any mood to be meeting and greeting guests after the shitty day I'd had.

"I wanted to see how your dad was." She replied softly, "I couldn't believe it when I heard." Her face crumpled then, and it became clear she was trying to hold back tears, "Martha, if I'd known I'd have brought him home, I promise." The tears started to flow then and to my complete and utter amazement, they appeared to be totally genuine. I'd never seen her cry before and if I'm honest I'd written her off as a bit of a hard nosed cow. She seemed to be one of those people who carried on regardless; even over the summer when mum and dad kept inviting her for dinner because mum said she needed support on account of her husband being banged up for manslaughter, I still never saw her shed so much as a tear. Most of the time it was all charming smiles and tinkling laughter – mum claimed it was all just a very clever front, but I'd never really believed it. Not until that night.

Call me a pushover but I couldn't carry on being mean to her, not when she was crying, and so I managed a weak smile in her direction,

"He's ok. He's in bed now." I paused, half wondering whether to expand, but before I'd really had chance to think about it, the words came flooding out before I could stop them. "He's in the spare room. He wouldn't go in his room and I thought that might be the next best thing."

Actually, I'd thought nothing of the sort. When dad had refused to sleep in his and mum's marital bed I hadn't the first clue what to do, and although I'd eventually pushed him into sleeping in the spare room I had no idea if it was the right thing to do or a huge mistake. Let's face it, I'm only 18, what the hell do I know about looking after a grieving father? – Not a bloody thing, that's what.

All that in mind, and kind of desperate for reassurance, even if it was just from some hard faced cow who I'd met all of 4 or 5 times in my entire life I found myself look to her for the answer to the question I'd been asking myself ever since dad had gone to bed.

"Did I do the right thing?"

She looked at me vaguely, apparently lost for words, possibly because she knew nothing of grieving fathers either, except in a professional capacity, but then she slowly nodded,

"I think so. In fact, I'm pretty much sure of it." She smiled more warmly then than I'd ever have imagined than an ice maiden like her could, "You did well Martha. Well done."

Her final words were patronising as hell and I knew I should probably be utterly put out that she was talking to me like I was a particularly dumb five year old, but the truth was that it was what I needed to hear. And I guess it was the fact that she was telling me what I needed to hear that prompted what came next.

"Would you like to come in?"

It was her turn to look surprised then, which I suppose I should have expected after the icy reception I'd afforded her. She stepped back slightly, "No. No thank you, not if your father's sleeping. It's fine."

But it wasn't fine. I'd suddenly decided that her leaving was the last thing that I wanted since I really didn't want to be alone, and as my dad was in bed and Joseph had buggered off as quickly as he could he possibly could after dropping us home (wearing enough aftershave to make it perfectly obviously he was abandoning us in favour of some kind of date), alone was precisely what I was.

"Please." I said urgently, leaving her in little doubt that I wanted her to stay. I glanced at the bottle in her hand, "We could drink your wine together. I could use a drink after the day I've had…"


	3. Connie, For Gina

I knew, the minute that I accepted her offer and crossed the threshold into the house, that any hope of being on the receiving end of any kind of support was gone. The night was no longer about me, it was about Martha, a young women who was clearly still little more than a child and yet had been thrust into a scary and confusing situation that most adults would struggle to cope with, let alone one so young.

But I was fine with that. I felt that lending her a shoulder to cry on was something I owed it to Gina to do, especially in light of the fact that I'd managed to let Elliot down so badly.

Besides which, I needed a chance to practice my mothering skills. I'd not really had much chance up to that point, and any kind of trial run was bound to be useful.

"I'm sorry about the state of the place." she said as she led me into the living room. She needn't have apologised. Since no one had been living there it wasn't particularly messy, just covered with a thin layer of dust which, if I hadn't been a woman of the 'can't clean, won't clean' variety, might have caused me to break out my duster and sort the problem out. As it was, all it really made me feel like doing was giving Elliot the number of my cleaner and advising him to give her a call at the first opportunity.

I sat myself down while Martha excused herself to the kitchen before returning with a corkscrew and glasses, trying to act like the cool and composed hostess that she clearly wasn't. Like a little girl playing 'house' was the analogy I made at the time, although that was an observation that would later come back round to bite me on the arse.

I knew I ought to decline the wine, but I knew it would look strange if I did since I'd brought it round in the first place. Besides which, after my altercation with Sam earlier in the day, I felt I needed at least a small glass.

Once the wine was poured and she was sat on the sofa beside me an awkward silence fell over the two of us. It was hardly surprising – what can a CT surgeon in her 30's have to say to an 18 year old media studies student? Especially when the only connection between them is the fact that one aided the assisted suicide of the other one's mother.

Little did I realise though was that the silence was the worst possible thing for Martha, as she was quick to tell me.

"Say something." She said, her eyes filling with tears, "People say nothing to me Connie, because they're scared of saying the wrong thing, but actually its worse if they say nothing at all because it just leaves a great big silence, a void of nothingness that serves no real purpose other than to remind me that my mum is dead."

The 'great big silence' that she speaks of is one I know all too well. Just as people avoid talking to her about Gina so they also avoided talking to me about Michael. I don't think one person, with the exception of Martha's parents, talked to me about him during the entirety of his incarceration; far better instead to talk about it behind my back, make veiled barbs about it to my face or, if they were feeling particularly kind and charitable towards me on that particular day, just saying nothing at all.

So yes, I did understand and, after sipping my wine, I told her so, to which she responded with the unimpressed look that teenagers are inclined to give people over the age of 30 whenever they claim to be on the same wavelength as them.

I would have argued, but I sensed that if Martha had inherited half of Gina's temperament and even a tenth of her spirit it was a discussion that was doomed to end in stalemate, and so, I just asked her how she was coping, regretting it instantly as she burst into tears on me, filling the hole left by the previous uncomfortable silence with uncontrollable sobbing that I was in little doubt came straight from the heart.

It's strange, I've never ever liked people crying. I think it comes of growing up in an all male environment actually. I was raised on the policy that big boys, and their troublesome little sister's (if she knows what's good for her) don't cry. But that night I didn't freeze and then excuse myself as I'm generally inclined to do when patients or their families burst into tears. I didn't even find myself feeling awkward, and the reason for that was that with Martha I knew exactly how to handle it.

I knew exactly what to do. In fact, I was compelled to do it, by force or forces unknown.

I reached out. I took Martha in my arms. And I held her,


	4. Martha, Untold Truths

It was weird having her hold me because I didn't really know her; she was, little more than a stranger and yet it felt so right. So nice. No one has really cuddled me since my mum died – dad's been locked in a little world all of his own, James has been… well James really and my new uni friends don't really know me well enough yet to offer that kind of support.

Not knowing me well didn't seem to be a problem for her though. She seemed to know exactly what it was that I wanted. Needed. She held me, cuddled me, rubbed my back and played with my hair like my mum did when I was a little girl. In short, she made me feel safe. Secure. And once I felt that way I started to talk, telling her things that I never imagined I'd be able to share with anyone. How I was scared my dad was cracking up, the anger I felt at my mum for what she did, and, how more than anything else, I really wanted to know, and understand, what happened in Switzerland.

As I was talking she carried on holding me, but, as I mentioned Switzerland I felt her stiffen and when I looked up at her it was to find her looking physically sick. I went to ask her if she was ok but before I could she spoke.

"You should ask your dad. He could tell you."

It was a joke. My dad didn't even manage to break the news of how mum had died to me, he left that to her in her letter – the chances of him sharing the finer details were somewhere between very much not likely and no chance at all. I told her as much and she fell strangely silent before blurting out three words that in the first instance made no sense to me, only gradually sinking in when she repeated them a second time.

"I was there."

At first I couldn't speak, consumed by conflicted emotions; furious that this stranger had played a role in my mum's death while I'd been left at home, no clue what was going on until it was too late to do anything to put a stop to it; relieved that my parents had, had some kind of support and scared at the prospect of hearing the full story, even though it was something I knew I needed to hear. To be honest, I might have lost the plot completely but she was so kind and gentle with me that somehow I managed to hold on in there and stay calm enough to listen to what she had to tell me.

To say I always had her down as a hard person, she told the story of Switzerland incredibly gently, and span it in such a way that it almost sounded… well… nice. She talked about what a beautiful place it was, and how happy and serene mum seemed towards the end. She explained that dad made a mad dash to be with them, and how he and mum had had chance to talk before he made the decision to support her and held her as she died. Ok, the whole thing had no happy ending but I think it was just a comfort to hear it – I'd pictured such terrible things; my mum dying in a dirty scruffy backstreet hospital, put down like a dog by a lethal injection, and if Connie told the truth it was a million miles from that.

It was dignified. Just like mum wanted, just like she'd said in her letter.

That said though, by the time Connie finished explaining it all to me I was in tears again, and when I looked up at her I found she was crying too, although she was trying so hard to hold the tears in. Without a word I moved out of her arms and went to find a box of tissues, which I handed to her on my return. She shook her head, pushing the box away but I pushed it firmly back,

"It's ok if you cry. It just means you cared about mum, and that means a lot to me, and," I added, smiling at her through my own watery tears, "it would mean a lot to her too."

The broke her, and as she took the tissues from me, tears began to cascade down her cheeks. I was tempted to try and hold her in that same protective way she had me before, but I thought it might feel a little strange for both her and me so I didn't. Instead I moved over to my parents… my dad's… drinks cabinet and selected a bottle of Whisky along with two glasses.

Seeing Connie watching me I held up the bottle so she could see, "We could both probably do with something stronger than that," I said, nodding in the direction of the bottle of wine she'd brought which was all but empty now anyway. She nodded in agreement but I could see in her eyes that she was hesitant, which I put down to the fact that she thought I was some silly little kid who shouldn't be drinking anything stronger than a bottle of WKD Blue. Later I discovered that was actually far from being her reason, but that would only come with the benefit of hindsight…


	5. Connie, Needing Her Too

Although I shouldn't have done, I drank the Scotch that Martha poured for me, and after that, I drank another one. Anything to blot out the pain caused by having to relive the day we lost Gina.

It would be quite easy for me to be very clinical about her. I could just write her off as another patient, albeit she one that I went the extra nine yards for. But to do so would be to do her a disservice. She wasn't just another patient, she was my friend. One of the few I've had in my life, and for that reason I felt her loss like no other. In some ways even more than I did Michael's.

That said I could have kicked myself for breaking down the way I did. Having said I wanted to take care of Martha, bursting into tears and having her having to comfort me seemed to be to renegade on that. But what could I do? I've long since learnt that when the pregnancy hormones start flowing, rolling with it is all you can do. And to be honest, although I didn't really buy her reasoning that my crying was of benefit to her, she did seem calmer, and whether that was down to my tears, or just a result of finally knowing the truth about her mother's death, it could only be a good thing.

For all she seemed calm though, she also looked drained, and I knew exactly how she felt. If the story was even half as emotionally draining for her to hear as it was for me to tell then I didn't doubt that she was absolutely exhausted, and the silence that we fell into as she cuddled up to me again only seemed to be a testament to that.

Unlike before though, the silence wasn't uncomfortable, it wasn't born of awkwardness – it was companionable, and as I held her against me, gently toying with her hair I realised that for the first time, in a long time, I didn't feel lonely, and, as messy as the day had been, and as emotional as the night was shaping up to be, I felt content.

So content in fact that I fell into the kind of deep and restful sleep that I hadn't had in months; since before Sam, Michael, Chrissie, Fiona Dunn and the VRSA. Since my bastard husband turned my world upside down.

Even when I woke, hours later with a crick in my neck and the acrid taste of alcohol in my mouth, I still felt completely at peace. I don't know what it was – whether it was the benefit of good sleep, or the way I could feel Martha's hand gently caressing my neck, but I was so relaxed I could quite easily have fallen asleep again, if I hadn't felt quite so guilty for having done so in the first place.

When I opened my eyes though, and apologised to Martha for being so antisocial, she shook the apology away.

"You looked so peaceful." She said gently, sliding her hand from my neck to my cheek, "You obviously needed it. Don't worry."

The guilt not quite abated I pulled her more closely into my arms, "And what about what you needed? You wanted company tonight," I reminded her, "I was meant to be providing that."

She smiled, "You did. I loved having you hold me." She cuddled closer, "It doesn't matter that you were sleeping. Although," she added, "I did remember something I wanted to ask you…"

"Go on…" I encouraged her, anxious to be able too return the favour she'd given me when she'd allowed me to sleep.

She sighed, "There's a song. Dad played it for hours on his guitar tonight. I want to know why."

I second guessed what was coming, and therefore as she opened her mouth and started to sing Moondance my only real surprise came at the strength of her voice – she was quite a songbird, and she handled the lilting melodies in such a way that it sent shivers down my side. As if sensing my surprise she smiled shyly and then explained,

"I did A level Music. My voice was my instrument."

"I assume you got an 'A' then…" I murmured, but it was small talk really, and a distraction from my having to answer her query, which I knew I'd have to do sooner rather than later.

"It's called Moondance."

She nodded, "I know. Richard Fleeshman sang it on Soapstar Superstar."

I had no knowledge of Richard Fleeshman or Soapstar Superstar but I suspected from the rosy tint that had suddenly appeared on her cheeks that he was a celebrity on whom she had a crush to rival my own on the Kemp brothers at her age. She must have sensed my lack of recognition because she explained,

"He's Baby Goth Craig, in Corrie."

I nodded then, since that meant more to me, although I found myself seriously questioning the taste of any girl who could fancy a boy who wore more eyeliner than she did. Although given my own track record with men I was hardly at liberty to comment.

Not that of this changed the fact that we were still desperately skirting around the issue, and finding it utterly uncomfortable I grabbed the bull by the horns.

"I think it was your parent's special song." I took a deep breath, "It was playing as your mum died."

She nodded, as if she'd known all along, and I suspect she probably had, but it didn't stop the onset of a fresh flood of tears. Not that it mattered, by that point I was an expert in dealing with them, I knew what to do.

I held in her in my arms, planted soft kisses in her hair and let her know, that in spite of how it may have felt, she wasn't alone. And while I don't think for one minute it came anywhere close to taking the pain away for her, she calmed down, rested her head on my chest and took her turn to fall asleep, while I watched over her.


	6. Martha, My Mistake

I blame my mum for what came next, which I know has elements of Oedipus about it, but it's really not like that, not by a long shot. It was just a matter of coincidence; of circumstance.

When I was a little girl I went through a stage of having nightmares, really bad nightmares. Not your bog standard monsters under the stairs crap but real life stuff. My family getting hurt and killed and lost and stuff. I don't think they ever really got to the bottom of why, and ended up just chalking it down to experience, but while they lasted I spent a hell of a lot of time out of my own bed and in there's. It must have driven them absolutely bonkers, but I remember mum always being especially kind to me, and letting me sleep literally on top of her, my arms wrapped tightly round her neck and my head on her chest. Dad always said that I probably felt safest there because I'd have been able to hear and feel her heartbeat, like in the womb, which I have no idea if its true or not but I think sounds quite good.

So that night, with Connie, when she held me as I cried, it just seemed so natural for me to lay my head next to her heart that, that was precisely what I did. And since she made no complaint or comment, and because we'd been pretty close for most of the evening I assumed that she was as happy with the arrangement as I was and let myself drift off to sleep.

This is… no… was the embarrassing part. Going back to the whole kid thing, I have vague recollections of stroking my mum's breast though her nightdress. Now I'm sure this is some big huge Freudian nightmare on so many levels but my mum always seemed to just let it go. At the end of the day I was 4 or 5 – it wasn't a sexual thing, it probably just goes back to when she was nursing me as a baby.

All the same, you can probably see where this is going; I woke up to find myself stroking the breast of a woman who not only wasn't my mum, but who was virtually a stranger to boot. The whole thing was a complete and utter car crash moment, even as I looked up at her my hand was still on her, grazing her nipple through her top in a way that it so shouldn't have been doing, I just couldn't bring myself to tear it away although embarrassment was flooding through me in a way I had no idea was possible.

"I'm sorry." I blurted out, waiting for her to slap me or similar but to be honest, she looked as embarrassed as I did, her cheeks were flushed red and she was every inch the deer caught in the headlights.

I finally managed to find the sense to snatch my hand away and we were left just looking at each other and I'm sure she had no more idea how to diffuse the moment than I did. I tried with another half arsed apology but it sounded piss weak, a bit too much "oh I'm sorry I grabbed your tit" and not enough effort to genuinely excuse my behaviour.

Torn between running out of the room in tears to concentrate on being embarrassed out of my mind in private and pouring myself another large drink in order to drink myself into oblivion, I weighed up my options before eventually settling for a drink twice the size of my previous two. Connie watched me both pour and down it before she finally managed to find words that had apparently evaded her in the minutes that had passed since I'd woken.

"It doesn't matter." I turned to look at her wondering how exactly she was managing to find the good grace to excuse my behaviour, but as she spoke again she gave me the answer that would make it entirely crystal clear.

"You don't need to be embarrassed… actually…" her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red, "… I liked it Martha, I liked you doing it…"


	7. Connie, My Confusion

I admit, it sounded, well, bad. But the truth was that I never really meant it quite the way it came out. The fact of the matter was that I wanted to comfort her; I could see how embarrassed the poor girl was and I wanted to reassure her that what had happened wasn't a problem for me. And in fact, in some way I did like her doing it. It's very unusual to find someone who knows how to touch a breast, especially after Sam who used to think treating them ala two orange halves being juiced was going to make the earth move for me. Mind you, he'd been an improvement himself, considering I was never really sure whether Michael was trying to turn me on or tune in a television when he went for my nipples… but that really is another story for another day. This isn't about them; it's about Martha.

Seeing the shock on her face, I gave her the explanation I've just given you, which, I'll be frank, was probably a mistake. In hindsight, if I'd not been drinking for the first time in months I might have worked that one out before I'd even opened my mouth, but at the time it seemed like a reasonable enough thing to say. Although possibly not as reasonable as the conclusion she reached as a result…

"You're gay?"

That made me laugh actually. I've never been accused of being gay before, and I wasn't really sure what to say in response. I mean yes, outright denial seemed like a good enough idea given the fact that I am not in fact gay but it was starting to become fairly obvious to me that following my ridiculous breast based outburst that Martha might find that hard to believe.

So instead, I did what has rather become my trademark in awkward and difficult circumstances that don't meet with my approval, and attempted to walk away.

"I should go." I rose from the sofa, picking up my handbag and heading for the door, but Martha was determined I was not about to leave without answering her question.

"So you are gay then?" Being younger and more agile than me she made it to the door first and stood in front of it, barring my way.

I shook my head, suddenly too tired and drained to want to enter into any kind of debate about my alternative sexuality, or not as the case may be. I hoped this would appease her but she remained standing in the doorway, an obstinate look on her face that made her look so much like Gina that I found myself wanting to burst into tears for what felt like the millionth time that day.

"What the hell was all that about then?"

"I don't know." I tried to ignore the lump rising in my throat that was threatening to choke me completely, "I've got no bloody idea." I suddenly felt like I was back on Darwin, facing up to Sam, drowning in a situation that I could neither cope with or control. I wanted to give her answers; just as I had him, but the truth was that in each case they were answers that the other party just wouldn't want to hear. Tears began to slide down my cheeks then and there was nothing in the world I could do to stop them,

"I just don't know Martha."


	8. Martha, Taking Control

I felt awful when she started crying. I mean I was still pretty confused about the whole gay thing but she'd been so nice to me the whole evening that I hated to see her upset. I went over to her and wrapped my arm around her shoulder before leading her back over to the sofa where I held her and cuddled her just as she had with me. And in spite of what I'd thought earlier, it didn't feel weird, even with all the confusion going on between us, actually it felt quite nice – after trying and failing to look after my dad, having her fall in my arms made me feel like I could be useful to someone after all.

She cried for a long time, so long that I started to wonder if it was about what had happened at all, or whether there was something bigger going on for her. I think in the end though it was kind of a combination of the two as I discovered when she eventually stopped crying and started talking.

She apologised first, and then,

"I've got a lot going on in my life at the moment," her eyes filled up again, and I cuddled her more tightly, knowing that it was precisely what I'd have needed if I had been her, "And I thought I could cope but I just feel so alone."

Alone. There was a feeling I could relate to, and I wanted to reassure her that she was anything but. I wiped away her tears, and gently kissed her on the forehead, something my mum always used to do to me, "You're not alone Connie." I reached for her hand and squeezed it, "You've got me."

She pulled away from me slightly then, and it didn't take Einstein to work out why, not after the conversation that had ensued after my little faux pas but it didn't matter, I didn't care if she was gay or not – I've got loads of gay friends, one more wouldn't have made a difference. I told her as much but she didn't look much happier.

"I'm not gay." Her denial sounded more plausible now she'd actually spoken it, but it still didn't make a whole lot of sense after what she'd said, or for that matter explain just why she was crying so much. She must have realised that because after falling silent and thinking for a long time she finally spoke again.

"I just liked it." She was blushing again, but I urged her to continue, knowing that we'd never sort the problem out if she didn't, "It was nice to have some physical contact. Some tender loving care. It made me feel better. Less alone. That's was why I liked having you touch me in that way." She finished, but by then could hardly bring herself to look at me, and looked so guilty that I felt bad for her. She shouldn't have felt that way – why should she have felt bad about wanting to be loved? – It was what everyone wanted, me included.

I reached out and gently turned her face so she was looking at me, our situations well and truly reversed now – me in control, me looking after her, "It's ok. It really is." She was crying again, looking so unsure of herself; the picture completely at odds to the woman I'd thought she was and words can't explain how much at that moment I wanted to comfort her. I leant towards her, gently kissed the tears from her cheeks and as I did so I became aware my lips were moving ever closer to hers, and then, without another word exchanged between us I kissed her.

I don't think she was as prepared for it as I was because her response was so tentative, but she responded all the same and that was enough to let me know that it was what she wanted, even if she did pull away seconds later, saying that we 'couldn't', that we 'shouldn't'.

I knew where she was coming from I suppose, I mean she was my dad's friend and he was asleep upstairs, but all I really cared about at that moment was giving her the comfort she was craving – it was no big deal, not really.

"It's fine." I murmured, moving into kiss her a second time, "My mates and I do it all the time when we're drunk. Just relax…" and with that I brought my lips down on hers and words became superfluous to requirements.


	9. Connie, Losing Control

Like our first kiss, the second started off incredibly tenderly and gently and as much as I knew it was wrong I couldn't help being swept away by it. By Martha. Much like when I'd initially felt her touching me I felt, for the first time in so long, like someone cared. This wasn't another Sam getting his rocks off by pushing me over a table and slamming deep inside me. This wasn't Michael and a perfunctory, him on top, screw to celebrate the weekly occurrence of Sunday morning, when, it's worth pointing out, I'd rather have been reading the papers. It was nuzzling and soft and…

… perfect.

I'd never kissed another woman before and I knew instantly that I liked it. It felt so right, and how could something so right possibly be wrong.

It only took, however, a matter of minutes for me to realise that such a stupid romantic notion really shouldn't be being applied in the given scenario. As the length of the kiss extended and the passion between us grew so did the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach that made me painfully aware of just how wrong the scenario was.

She was 18. She was Elliot and Gina's daughter. She was another woman, a girl. She'd just done her A levels. She was at an age where she still had world rocking celebrity crushes. She probably even had posters of Craig from Coronation Street on her bedroom wall.

There was no way in the world that this was acceptable, even if I didn't stop and take into account my status as a pregnant 39 year old heterosexual woman, which I didn't since the situation seemed dire enough without bringing all that to the table.

And yet still, I carried on not only responding to her kiss, but also playing my own part. Tangling my fingers in her hair, pulling her body tight against my own and letting my hands drift in directions that made me feel like some kind of paedophile.

It was only when she rolled me carefully underneath her that I forced myself to turn my head, jerking my lips away from hers and putting a hasty stop to the kissing.

She groaned, "Cons…" I felt her hand reach up and caress my neck, an action which hours before had seemed so innocent but took on a new twist in the face of everything that had happened.

"We can't." I spoke not to her, but to the back of the sofa, knowing that if I looked at her I was running the risk of things getting out of hand all over again, "It's wrong. You're too young."

"Oh. Right. So I'm old enough to lose my mother but not to make love to a beautiful woman." As quickly as I heard her words I pushed them determinedly from my mind, the concept of making loving to her one I wasn't at all ready to comprehend. "I told you before," she added, sounding like a sulky school girl on every level, "I've done this before."

I didn't want to hurt her but I knew I had to get across to her the seriousness of what she was suggesting. I took my hands and pushed her off of me before sitting up myself and finally, now we were in a less precarious position, looking at her.

"This is not getting pissed on a Friday night and snogging your mates to turn the boys on." It came out more harshly than I'd intended but all the same it was the point I'd been wanting to make. That said I softened my tone as I continued, "I really like you, and I appreciate what you were trying to do for me," As indeed I did – it's nice to think that someone wants to take care of you, "but we can't do this Martha."

She said nothing for a few moments, and I wondered if she was digesting and accepting everything I'd said, but then she turned on me and I realised she was even more stubborn than I'd first thought, and every inch her mothers daughter.

"Why do you think this is just about you? About you being alone, about you wanting comfort? Has it not occurred to you from this," she gestured round the room with her arm – to the dust, and the urn containing Gina's ashes that stood on the fireplace, "that I might want this too. That I might want to feel that you care about me too."

I sighed, "Martha, I do care."

She rolled her eyes, a display of truculent teen behaviour that only served to remind me how right I'd been to pull back, "But not enough to be intimate with me. Not enough to show me I'm loved." She looked at me, the once rolling eyes now full of tears, which I turned away to avoid seeing – although that didn't protect me from the words that followed,

"I was right about you. You are a hard faced cow."

Her words sunk into me like a knife – delivered in a tone as cold and as harsh as the content they hurt me every bit as much as any missive Sam had thrown at me that day, if not more so, and although I hated myself for getting angry with her I couldn't stop myself from snapping back.

"What the hell do you want me to do Martha? Do you really expect me to have sex with you on your father's sofa while he's asleep upstairs? Have you given any thought at all to what would happen if he woke up?"

"I don't care about that."

Her tone had changed again, no longer cold, but desperate and as I forced myself to look at her once more I found she was crying… no… sobbing, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them with her head resting on top.

"I don't care about anything Connie, I just want to be with you…"


	10. Martha, Changing Her Mind

I don't know when it stopped being about taking care of her, and became about what I wanted, but it did, there's no denying that. I suppose being with her, having her hold and kiss me was a timely reminder of something I'd been craving ever since mum died; I'd envied the fact that James had his fiancée to lean on and wanted a piece of that for myself.

Connie was pretty astute though, she guessed that that was the case, and as I sat sobbing on the sofa she gently wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close to her again.

"Sweetheart, this isn't about me. You're just looking for someone to cling to, just like I was."

She was right, but I wasn't about to let her off the hook that easily. It may have been more to do with having anyone, rather than her particularly, but that didn't change the fact that at that moment, she was the one that was there.

I looked up at her, still in tears and gently stroked her cheek, "Please…."

She shook her head, apparently denying me all that I wanted, but I couldn't be angry with her because in her eyes I could see that she wanted it as much as I did and was only refusing because she felt I was too young and that made it wrong.

I knew then I had to make her see that I wasn't the innocent little kid she thought I was.

"Please…" I whispered a second time, bringing my lips closer to hers and brushing against them gently, "I want this." I moved one of my hands to her breast and began stroking her again as I had before, only this time deliberately, with purpose. She pulled back but there was a hesitation there that hadn't been evident previously.

She was giving into me, and we both knew it.

I lowered her back down onto the sofa, bringing myself on top of her, resting on my elbow so as not to crush her, and kissed her, while bringing my hand back to its previous location and gently caressing her. As I touched her she moaned into my mouth, and it didn't take Einstein to work out that it wasn't in protest, even more so when I felt one of her hands sliding down my back and onto my rear, where it pulled me tightly against her.

While my experiences with other women were limited, as she'd quite rightly pointed out, to drunkenly snogging for the boys, I was sexually experienced enough to know what came next and I slowly began to undo the buttons of her shirt. I half expected her to stop me immediately, or at least protest, but she was so engaged by our kisses and caresses that I'd completed my task and her shirt was off her shoulders before she realised what I'd done and broke away from my kiss to complain.

"We can't…." It was a breathless and half hearted protest, and I was able to silence it by bringing my lips back to hers, and when she broke away a second time her argument had taken on a new twist, "… not here…"

Much as I'd longed for her to back down, and suspected that she would, it was still a surprise to hear it and I found myself having to check that I'd fully understood what she was saying and the connotations thereof.

"Shall we take this upstairs?"

I've never seen anyone look as torn as she did in that moment – she was obviously conflicted but the fact that her hands hadn't left my body and were still gently stroking and caressing me made it clear what she really wanted. All the same she carried on looking at me numbly for a long time before she eventually nodded with a look of fear in her eyes.

Climbing off of her I got to my feet and then held my hand out for her, "Come on then… let's go…"

She stared at my hand for a long time, and then with a heavy sigh, reached out and took it in her own.

"Yeah. Let's go…"


	11. Connie, The Next Stage

I know what you're thinking. One minute I'm claiming I have no interest in sleeping with a girl 21 years my junior, or indeed any kind of girl at all, and the next I'm letting said girl lead me to her bedroom, my shirt basically hanging off of my shoulders and with sex very much on the agenda.

What can I say? The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

The proof of the pudding of course, lies in the fact that as I made my way up the stairs I was completely convinced that it wasn't all going to end in sex. Yes, we'd kiss; yes, we'd cuddle – it was what we both needed – but as far as I was concerned, we were going to stop short of full sex.

You don't need me to tell you that that didn't happen.

I'd barely made it through the bedroom door when she turned and took me in her arms again, kicking the door shut with her foot and gently pinning me against it as she kissed me yet again, with levels of passion and intensity that I'd never felt from anyone, let alone her. It made me feel better actually, as if it justified the whole thing – if she was a passionate and sexual being, then she couldn't also be an innocent little girl. It was bad logic in retrospect, but at that moment what did I care? It was easier for me to keep kidding myself, especially since she was very much the one in control.

As a testament to her being the dominant one, I found myself on her bed before I knew what was happening, guided there as she showered me with kisses, and as we tumbled down onto it she finished the job she'd started downstairs and removed my shirt

As we lay on the bed, still kissing, I felt her hands creeping up my back to the clasp of my bra, and again I made an abortive attempt to halt the proceedings but as she silenced me once again, undoing said clasp and slipping the bra from my shoulders, I realised I was fighting a losing battle.

It was going to happen. All I could do was go with it.

And that knowledge in itself brought with it a whole new set of worries.

"I don't know how to have sex with a woman."

I'd blurted it out before I'd even formed the sentence in my head, and as I did so I couldn't help laugh at the irony. Connie Beauchamp, a sexual predator with degree level knowledge of the Karma Sutra becoming a scaredy cat in the face of sex with an 18 year old. I'd been having sex before she was even born, although that wasn't particularly a thought I wanted to dwell on. I half expected her to laugh at me too, but she didn't, instead just smiling supportively as her hands made contact with my naked breasts for the first time.

"It's ok Connie. We'll work it out. I saw a film once."

At that moment with her hands fondling me, I could have very easily have let the comment slide, but curiosity won out, "A film?"

She smiled, "You know, porn. Some guys put it on at a house party I was at. Girl / girl action – you know how much they like that stuff." 

Oh I knew. I'd quite often had to endure whatever crap Michael brought home in the hope of turning me on, and I'd seen enough to know that two girls going at each other with hair brush handles while one of their husbands was wanking in the wardrobe was not what I really wanted for Martha and I.

If it was going to happen, it was going to be completely the opposite of any film she'd seen.

It was going to be special.

I'd never be able to live with myself otherwise.


	12. Martha, Discovering Her

Inspite of Connie's concerns, once we started it just seemed to happen for us. No one told us what to do or how to do it – we just knew. We undressed each other, and then lay for hours, exploring every inch of each others bodies until I felt I knew hers as well as I knew my own – where she liked to be touched… and how… the way she reacted as I caressed her and the way she clung to me as I took her to her peak. I'd never known anyone that intimately, and I liked it.

It's not that I've not had boyfriends; god knows I have, but I've never had one who touched me like Connie did – physically or emotionally. I loved every single second of being with her – discovering who she was, and having her discover me.

What I didn't know, was that there was one very large discovery I still had to make about her. It was a little after 3am, and I was in her arms, coming down from an orgasm like no other I'd ever known as she continued her intimate caresses. I found myself lightly running my hands over the contours of her body and, as my hands settled on her stomach, I felt her freeze.

I looked up at her curiously, "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, brushing my question aside, but it didn't nothing to allay my concerns and as she started to rub me again, trying to distract me with sex, I pulled away from her, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was bothering her.

I asked a second time what was wrong, and on receiving no answer I retraced my steps, going back to the moment where she froze up. I slid my hands back onto her stomach and stroked it, watching her face for clues. She gave me nothing, but as I continued to feel her stomach I realised that the answer I was looking for was right there, under my hands.

In a fullness that I'd missed before.

"You're pregnant."

I'd phrased it as a statement not a question but she nodded anyway, and it made a lot of things made sense.

"You said you had a lot going on in your life at the moment." I said slowly, keeping my tone neuteral, not wanting her to think I was judging her, "You meant the baby."

Again she nodded, pulling away from me and looking incredibly guilty, "Yeah. I…" her eyes filled with tears again and I instantly moved to cuddle her. It seemed to be second nature to me now, "I… rowed with the father today. I'm sorry."

I knew it ought to hurt me that she'd come and bedded me because of a row with a former lover, but at the same time I also know it would have been hypocritical of me to let it. I'd known from the word go that she wanted me because she felt alone, and after all, wasn't that precisely the same reason that I'd wanted her?!

As she continued to cry I rocked her back and forth in my arms, stroking her hair – the mother to her child.

Ironically.

She continued to apologise long into the night, but she didn't need to.

All the mattered to me was taking care of her.


	13. Connie, The Morning After

When I woke the next morning it was with the hangover from hell and a sense of intense and crippling guilt. Even before I'd opened my eyes I was assaulted by memories of the night before – how things with Martha had got so out of hand, the sex, and then breaking down in her arms.

Not exactly a lesson in how to take care of a vulnerable young girl.

And when I opened my eyes and found myself naked and alone in Martha's bed, and with the opportunity to take in my surroundings for the first time, things got all the worse.

She did have posters of the boy from Coronation Street. They adorned her baby pink walls along with those of Orlando Bloom and several other young men I didn't recognise. There were teddies – several teddies – scattered all over the floor, obviously having been pushed off the bed during our hours of passion the night before.

I instantly felt sick to my stomach, and it wasn't just the hangover.

Then I saw them. My favourite pink Agent Provocateur French knickers hanging from a silver photo frame on the bedside table, only half obscuring a photograph of Gina and Elliot.

Bile rose in my throat, and only the luck of the draw that was a sink in one corner of the room prevented me from being violently ill all over the butterfly duvet cover.

I knew in that instant that I had to get out. And never ever go back.

I dressed as quickly as my hangover would allow me to and left the room, wondering both what the hell had happened to Martha and whether it would be rude to leave without saying goodbye. In any event, as I made it down the stairs and reached the hallway, the questions were both answered.

She was in the living room. And I didn't have a choice.

"Cons. I'm in here."

I steeled myself and entered the room where only 12 hours earlier the whole mess had begun to find Martha, and, in a 'this is your worst nightmare' twist, Elliot, sat reading the morning papers.

Elliot smiled as I entered, "Connie. How can I thank you?" I must have looked confused because he continued, "Martha told me what happened last night." I realised instantly that Martha must have created a whole new version of 'last night' because Elliot would have hardly been thanking me for it if she hadn't. I looked at her questioningly, hoping she might avail me as to what this fantasy night had entailed and she quickly came to my rescue.

"I told dad that you popped by, and I got upset so you stayed with me. It really was nice of you."

She was a cool little customer, I'll give her that much. I'm not adverse to the odd white lie myself but she carried it off amazingly – more amazingly than I did when I mumbled an embarrassed response.

Elliot offered me breakfast but I declined, by that point desperate to get out of the house. He thanked me again and then Martha rose to show me out. I argued that I knew the way, but that didn't stop her and before I knew it we were in the hallway, only a closed door between us and our awkward silence and Elliot.

I looked at her, guilt flooding through me all over again, "I'm sorry."

Without a word she pulled me to her, gently kissing me in a way that far from feeling strange now felt familiar. Like coming home. I tried to pull away, aware of Elliot in the next room but she wouldn't let me, only breaking the kiss a few moments later on her own say so.

"Don't be."

"But…" I went to remind her of all the things I had to be sorry for but she was having none of it.

"Did you feel lonely last night? Did you sleep better for having me there? Did you," she leant forward to whisper in my ear, "enjoy making love to me?"

I sighed, "No. Yes." I hesitated over the answer to her final question, knowing full well that the answer was yes, but not wanting to admit that to a girl in Little Miss Naughty pyjamas.

"You can say it… because I enjoyed it too. And," she added as she cuddled closer to me, "I didn't feel lonely either – I had the best nights sleep I've had since mum died." She smiled a cheeky grin that threatened to melt my heart all over again, "We should do it again sometime."

I leant over and kissed her then, but it was an empty gesture – it was just the only way I could think of to avoid having to tell her that we would never do it again.

It was a one night stand.

It could never have been anything more.


End file.
